


Paying Passage

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hlh_shortcuts, Future Fic, Immortals in Space, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Space had tramp-freighters it seemed, and men who chose the dark and distance and the company of other and like-minded men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying Passage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diana Williams (dkwilliams)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> Written for DKWilliams in the 2010 HLH_Shortcuts fic exchange. Originally posted here: http://community.livejournal.com/hlh_shortcuts/50416.html
> 
> This story would not have gotten written without the encouragement, brainstorming, hand-holding, commentary and cheering on of Ickaimp, Morgynleri and Auberus. Thank you so much, ladies. I could not have done it without you. Thanks are also due Jay Tryfanstone, for running the fest & going above and beyond.

Space had tramp-freighters it seemed, and men who chose the dark and distance and the company of other and like-minded men. The lure of further out, farther away, or even just ‘away’ with no urge to exploration, had never left humanity. It was only that the scale increased. And as had also been the case through all the span of Methos’ life, those men had needs they were willing to accept the odd to satisfy. Methos truly could not say how many of his journeys going hence and hither had been paid in coin not specie, but the currency of flesh. As he was paying for his passage now.

Methos pressed his forehead into the yielding surface of the couch and let the crewman pound into him. He had a certain rough enthusiasm, and was one of the more considerate. When Methos thought about it, it was really not as odd that young (and not-so-young) men on ships (any ships, sailing through any kind of sea - water or air or the dark between the stars) would seek relief from nearly any willing body, alien or otherwise. Blue skin or brown, preferred gender expression or shape often notwithstanding.

The crewman (his two o’clock appointment, though of course both words and intervals of time had changed) grunted, finishing, as wordless as he had begun. Some talked, some did not, it made little difference. And to a man their desires were conventional, mouth or ass, and most chose ass. Except for Trey, who chose to spend his alloted time in cuddling, not even unclothed, and petting him as if Methos was a cat, which _was_ out of the common way, but certainly not unpleasant. As this was not unpleasant, merely … a job of work his body knew very well indeed, and performed perfectly well without the assistance of his mind.

The man withdrew, rolled off him (as the ones who preferred the ass also tended to prefer mounting from behind, anonymous, androgynous and no need to negotiate eye-contact) and removed himself to the fresher-closet to dispose of the seal-sheath and tidy himself. Not even an exchange of fluids, sensation only. Thoroughly dry, though of course the lube was top quality. It wasn’t a question of excellence; Methos certainly knew what he was about, and his clients/shipmates always got what they wanted and needed by way of pleasant release, though Methos himself rarely came. Rarely wanted to. Rarely even roused himself, though there was enjoyment in the exercise.  
The fresher buzzed and clicked, familiar noises, as Methos lay stretched out on the couch, head pillowed in his arms. No point in rising until the man had left - the fresher was far too small for two, even were they that kind of happy in each other’s space. And Cargo-Service 3 Dulam Duffy was his last appointment for the shift. No one would be waiting for him.

The little room served both as sick-bay and for ‘stress-relief allotments’ and was Methos’ to arrange and maintain in both its offices. He had a sleeping-cabin, a little ways down the corridor, and took his meals in the common mess. Only the captain regularly ate alone, and he had yet to avail himself of Methos’ services in either role. Or perhaps he had and Methos had not immediately recognized that what he got off on was imagination and description, and did well enough with having made a (really quite thorough) inspection of prospective Ships-Relief and Med-Tech ChanRos Pierce, requiring of him detailed hypotheticals of practice and technique (for which Methos had drawn on actual events without hesitation, once he understood what the man wanted) none of which applied to his crew.

Duffy came out of the fresher and patted Methos shyly on one butt-cheek still faintly flushed from the vigorous use to which he had subjected it. “Thanks” he offered to the air above Methos’ back. “Same again next dozen-shift?”

“Certainly,” answered ChanRos, “On the scheduler already.”

Duffy nodded. “Good. Good shift, then,” he said, rote pleasantry as he stepped around the privascreen and out the door.

“Clear space,” Methos said to the now empty room. He put his head back down on his arms for a moment. Good shift? He’d heard the phrase uncounted times, shipboard courtesy, the reply as formal, unthinking and removed from actual feeling. What was he doing here? Still here, when he had thought this only a means to an end, the end being a place, a planet, congenial company and a challenge of new wonders and terrors to explore. Yet here he was, half-way into the third round of this ship’s milk-run route, and he had hardly left the ship, or gone beyond the spaceport and the traveler’s pale when he had. What was he _doing?_

 _Running,_ promptly provided an inner voice. _Running fast and far and hopefully to someplace warm._

Except he was running in circles, both literal and figurative. And the ship was not particularly warm, by much of any description. Space was, by definition, cold. Empty. Vacuum. Always winter, and never Sun-return. He was whoring for his passage, going nowhere. Not even here. He turned over and sat up, sliding off the couch to pad naked to the fresher. What am I running from? He asked the same space in himself, not really expecting an answer any more than he had the first time.

 _Duncan,_ came the answer, just as prompt and even more perverse.

Oh.

He leaned on the sink-frame and stared at the face looking back at him from the mirror. Untidy dark hair over a pale and sharp-boned face, blade of a nose, eyes deep and dark and might charitably be likened to holes in a piece of paper (except, of course, no one used paper any more, not casually, not on shipboard). Duncan. Absently he began to wash, sonic mitt and hand-vac not so very different from oil and strigils, really. Less personal, certainly. The baths public and private had always had attendants, or fellow bathers. Other hands to pour and rub the places it was hard to reach, to draw the bronze curve through the oil that lifted sweat-salt and dust-grime and other things and strip it all away, leaving only skin and the whisper of the air against it. And another’s back and flanks and tender places for which to do the same.

 _You could teach Duncan the art of strigil-cleaning,_ remarked the voice in his mind.

So he could. And they would both enjoy it. Methos’ hands faltered, imagining it, all the fire that the crewman had not roused from cold slumber igniting.

 _Smoothing oil on those strong thighs, stiff prick moving between slick cheeks, anointed fingers gripping, sliding, squeezing, the heady scent of male musk and clean/warm skin, all in the encompassing embrace of need-desire-love/eros-philos-agape_.

Methos closed his eyes and let himself inhabit the image, arching into his own hands (remembered hands, desired hands) and surprised himself with sudden, sharp arousal hard followed by release. His knees trembled a little and his breath was ragged as he caught the sink-frame, the hand-vac fallen into the suspension field. The splash of seed on his belly was cooling quickly in the chill air, but sparks still raced along his nerves, awake and wanting.

He had always known that Duncan was still out there, still alive, still finding causes and clansfolk to adopt. Always even known that he was welcome at that hearth, however they might argue. He could seek him out. But what then?

 _Stop running,_ said the voice, _And find out._


End file.
